


a reason for hope in us

by la_victorienne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-20
Updated: 2011-07-20
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:39:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: He shouldn’t be here--of course he shouldn’t be here, Arthur won’t want to see him, but it’s been the roughest of nights, and this is the only place--literally the only place he could think to go.





	

**Author's Note:**

> In which Eames is an undergrad, and Arthur used to be his TA--but that's not part of this story, this is just the story of how now is the perfect moment, and how Eames came home.

He creeps in long past midnight, exhausted and aching. He shouldn’t be here--of course he shouldn’t be here, Arthur won’t want to see him, but it’s been the roughest of nights, and this is the only place--literally the _only_ place he could think to go. So he’s here, standing in Arthur’s front entry, with a key he shouldn’t have tucked into the palm of his hand, staring at the door he’s just come through and wondering if it’s too late to turn back.

“The hell are you doing here, Eames.”

Eames turns, and there he is--still the lithe, slender man he remembers, standing in the half-light of his kitchen window. For a moment, Eames has nothing to say. Then--

He scrubs a hand over his face and opens his arms. “Cops are busting Nash for the junk in his desk--in our house. Didn’t know where else to go to not be implicated. You know they’re not mine.”

Arthur snorts. “No, but the fake passports sure are. Come to stash them here?”

It’s all still there; Eames can hear it. The betrayal, the revulsion, the desire. Everything he heard when Arthur left him two years ago. It’s the last, that pitted want in the corner of Arthur’s voice, that gives him even the slightest chance.

“Don’t have those, anymore,” he admits, shrugging. “Gave it up. Switched my major, even, transferred to the art department last year. You won, that round.”

And of all the things he expects to see in Arthur’s face, this is the last--the wince of self-loathing that shutters his entire body closed for a moment, all too familiar to Eames himself. Eames’ hands clench reflexively, muscle memory of nearly a year-long relationship winning over any other reconditioning. “Sorry,” he offers, a beat too late. “I break into your house and can only bring up ancient arguments. Guess I’m still a fuckup after all. I’ll go, police should be out of our place by now. Here’s hoping my room’s not trashed. See you, darling.” The slightest chance, and he blew it. Sounds about right.

He’s almost out the door before Arthur calls out. “No, wait. I--look, Eames, what do you want me to say? I’m glad you’re painting, of course I am, but I only ever wanted you to pursue what you loved. That’s--that’s all it ever was.” He thins his mouth and looks away. “You should--stay, if you need to. There’s always--well. You obviously still have a key.”

Eames can’t help laughing, a half-chuckle quickly stifled. “Guilty,” he quips, but Arthur shakes his head.

“No, Eames, you’re not. Not any more.”

Eames shrugs, because it’s all or nothing. “Still guilty of wanting you, so. Should probably go, all the same.”

Arthur moves across the room before Eames can process it, pressing up into his space. His hands are everywhere, drifting across Eames’ shoulders, down to his waist and back to his jaw. “Me too,” he finally whispers. “God, Eames, me too.”

Eames hears himself make a wounded noise in the back of his throat and closes the gap. It’s been so long since he’s been allowed to touch, to taste--Arthur moves exactly like he remembers, all strong hands and direction, pushing his t-shirt up to thumb the tattoos underneath. It feels like he never left. It feels _right_.

He pushes Arthur gently back anyway, looks into his eyes. “Arthur, are you--sure? Because I can go, if.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Arthur growls, and pushes him up against the nearest wall, biting into Eames’ neck. “Don’t you _ever_ leave me again,” he whispers.

Eames swallows and slides a hand into Arthur’s hair, tilting his head back, the other hand clutching at Arthur’s shirt. “God, darling,” he rasps.

Arthur pulls back, eyes narrowed. “Promise me,” he says, pupils blown black. “Promise me you’ll stay.”

It suddenly occurs to him--Arthur really thinks he might leave, genuinely believes Eames could walk away from this. He presses forward, places the lightest of kisses on Arthur’s upturned mouth. “I promise,” he murmurs, cradling Arthur’s head in one palm. “I swear it.”

Arthur must believe him, because he actually jumps into Eames’ arms, tightening his legs around Eames’ waist. Eames wants to sob, he’s missed this so much. He licks into Arthur’s mouth, opens up to that delicious, wet heat, relearns the taste he used to know so well. This--this is it, this is what he’s wanted for years--kisses that taste of too much coffee, inky fingers tightening in his hair, the press of Arthur’s groin against his own, beautiful long body at Eames’ mercy for only a little, calculated while.

Arthur digs his heels into Eames’ sides; Eames moves obediently towards the bedroom, nipping at Arthur’s lower lip before bumping up against the edge of the bed, depositing Arthur as gently as he is able. He takes a step back, looks down, watching Arthur’s fingers unbuttoning his own shirt, still surrounded by the books and pages of his research thesis, just as Eames remembers. “I still love you,” Eames mumbles, soft and reverent. Arthur looks up and narrows his eyes.

“Come here,” is all he says.

Eames takes the hint.

In moments they’re naked, Arthur stretched out above him, all long limbs and angular planes, and Eames is fairly drifting on the sensation. Arthur’s hands, tracing the lines of ink on his shoulders; Arthur’s mouth, nipping bruises into his chest; Arthur’s hair, slipping through his fingers. He arches into the touches, splaying his legs open as Arthur marks his path down Eames’ body. He doesn’t say anything else, but Eames can feel it in every touch--I missed you, and I love you, and you’ve come home. Eames offers himself up to it completely.

Slick fingers stroke just behind his balls, then into the cleft of his arse, teasing for only moments before pressing up and in. Arthur’s the only one who ever wanted this from him, the rest of his relationships turning over at the first glimpse of ink and muscle. Arthur gives him this, instead--gives him what he needs.

He calls out, and is silenced with a kiss, the head of Arthur’s cock pressing in, filling him. He is surrounded, anchored, taken completely--at home for the first time in months, just where he is supposed to be. And Arthur--Arthur feels it too, gaining pace with every slick, warm thrust, sliding into the cradle of Eames’ body even as Eames locks his heels around Arthur’s back, urges him forward. His cock twitches against Arthur’s stomach as together they find the perfect angle. He rakes an arm down Arthur’s back--fuck, it’s so good, he doesn’t have _words_.

Arthur, it seems, finally does.

“Mine,” he’s panting, fucking into Eames with a fist around his dick. “Mine, you’re mine, you’re all--fucking--mine,” over and over into the curve of Eames’ neck, until Eames clenches around Arthur inside him. Then it’s “fuck, fuck, you’re--oh, fuck,” squeezing and tugging at Eames with whatever rhythm he can manage--until they’re both coming spectacularly, locked together, swearing into the warm, humid room.

“Arthur,” Eames finally murmurs. “God, Arthur.”

Arthur pulls out, ties off the condom, folds himself into Eames’ body. “Go to sleep, Mr Eames. I expect you to still be here, in the morning.

Eames grins into Arthur’s hair, a last lingering weight lifting from his chest, and he can breathe again. “Yes, Professor.”

Against his skin, he can feel Arthur’s smile. 


End file.
